My attorney sent me some of your complaint to the cops.
I read in your words that I did freak you out.
I'm sorry.
That was a side effect. Of "barrage flirting".
I'm sorry. I couldn't let you forget me.
I wasn't sure whether you were reading my emails or not. So I sent them to everyone you'd ever heard of.
I'm sorry. That was last year and a long time ago. But it hurts me to think I hurt you.
Desperate. Desperate, for your attention. I'm sorry.
I thought of it and still do, think of it, as I'm the boy serenading from below your bedroom window. Except I didn't want to do that. Because that's weird. That's stalkerish.
So instead I emailed you. Words, digital paper. A lot of paper but, you were wrong. I was never going to hurt you. Never going to accost you. Never going to do anything in your face without the invitation.
It's my fault you got that impression. I'm sorry.
I'm not sorry because I should be. I'm not sorry because it'll sound good in court. I'm sorry because you were not a target of anything but love arrows.
I didn't know what else to do. Except be memorable.
If you're not reading these now then I am knifed, gut-shot and dead. As far as you're concerned. I don't exist. Never will, exist. When court is over, without you demanding my company I will be free to look for love from another person in another place. The State of New York is the one now keeping me thinking officially about you. I can't move on until I'm allowed. Until I'm released to live my life without having to go back to NYC to deal with this.
Before then I have hope you will change your mind. Because you're my favorite female ever. That's what we're supposed to do. We find, you choose.
LightningLover.com